


for the weight of us

by growlery



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Inspired by a Movie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike hates William. William hates Mike. It isn’t exactly complicated, and it’s been this way since they were kids. But when Mike’s friend Butcher falls for William’s step-brother and it turns out the only way they can get their Disney ending is if they set William up with someone first, Mike finds himself in the completely unexpected position of Bill Beckett’s boyfriend.</p><p>The worst part is, he finds he doesn’t actually <i>mind</i> it.</p><p>There’s no way this can end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the weight of us

**Author's Note:**

> written for an amazing vocal performance at bandomreversebb by madgurl. My original idea involved urban fantasy and bonfire rituals and was actually kind of cool, but it also really, really wasn’t working, so I wrote ridiculous high school fic instead, which may or may not be a total rip off of 10 Things I Hate About You. Um. >.>
> 
> Thank you to madgurl for the incredibly inspiring vocal performance which spawned a billion angsty Mike/William AUs in my brain that will probably never be written, to knight_tracer who was lovely enough to beta, and sparrowsverse who I whined about this to when it wasn’t working. ♥
> 
> Title and lyrics are from The Weight of Us by Sanders Bohlke.

_there are thieves who rob us blind and kings who kill us fine  
but steady the rights and the wrongs and bathe us in innocent song_

~

Mike is not in the mood for a party tonight, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Gabe is kind of a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

“It’s the last weekend of the summer, Carden,” he had said when he’d turned up on Mike’s doorstep yesterday, eyes wide, lips jutted out in a ridiculous pout. “It’s tradition!”

There is just no saying no to Gabe Saporta when he’s got an idea in his head and there’s no way Mike wants to deal with him bitching about bailing on him for the rest of the academic year until they graduate, so at ten o’clock on the dot he trudges over to Gabe’s place, just down the road from his own.

As usual, the house is brimming with people when Mike gets inside, only about half of whom he recognises and less than a quarter of which he has more than a grudging tolerance of. Mike weaves his way through the clusters of people, searching for an at least vaguely familiar face. 

Fingers close around his wrist and tug, yanking him out of the crowd, and Brendon Urie says, “Hey.” His grin widens when Mike scowls at him. “Drink?”

“Thanks,” Mike mutters, and Brendon tosses him a still-mostly-cool can of beer. He’s doing the casual lean against the wall thing he thinks makes him look cool but doesn’t quite work for him, short as he is, especially next to the Butcher.

“My pleasure,” Brendon says, still grinning. “It’s not like anyone actually expected you to show up. I haven’t seen you in ages, dude. I was starting to think I’d forgotten the sound of your sexy, sexy voice.”

He drops a wink at Mike and Mike rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, voice just as good-natured as Brendon’s tease. He glances at the Butcher, who seems to be staring across the room with an expression of... actually, Mike has no idea how to describe the look on Butcher’s face. It’s sort of... starstruck. Mike is uncomfortable applying that adjective to someone he considers a friend of his. “What’s up with the Butcher?”

Brendon snickers, sing-songs, “Butcher has a cru-ush”. 

Mike’s eyebrows go all the way up his forehead. It’s kind of obvious now he thinks about it – Butcher’s obvious disinterest in them, the really stupid grin – but Butcher really isn’t the type to go all moony-eyed over someone. 

“He has the stupidest hair cut ever and he’s, like, twelve or something,” Brendon adds, and Butcher’s protest of, “Fifteen, Urie, Jesus Christ,” is mostly drowned out by his giggling.

“When did this happen?” Mike asks, half because he’s genuinely curious, and half just because it’s fun watching Butcher squirm.

“Just before you got here,” Brendon informs him, a gleeful gleam in his eye. “It was _adorable_ , like, think Little Mermaid meet-cute without all the fish.”

Mike frowns. “Butcher... rescued the guy from drowning?” he asks, slowly, because Brendon’s logic is kind of hard to follow at the best of times. 

Brendon rolls his eyes, like Mike is the one being stupid here. “It’s a metaphor, Mike.”

“Your metaphor sucks,” Mike tells him, because it _does_. 

“Fuck you, my metaphor is awesome, you just need more imagination,” Brendon declares, grinning. “Butcher saved him from getting crushed on the dance floor.” He gestures vaguely at the clumps of people dancing around them, though dancing is possibly too generous a term. “There wasn’t any singing, more’s the pity, but the heart-eyes were visible from _space_.”

“Shut up, they were not,” Butcher says, but his lips are still tugged up in a goofy grin like he can’t help it.

Mike raises an eyebrow. “So if Butcher’s Ariel and this guy’s his Eric, who’s Ursula?”

Brendon beams at him with his I-love-it-when-you-humour-me smile, but it’s Butcher who answers.

“Gabe stole him away,” he says, sounding glum. “Said he had to show Siska his basement or something, I couldn’t really hear.”

Time stops. Mike can hear the blood rushing in his ears, everything else just background noise: the faint strains of the shitty dance music, Brendon making a crack about Gabe and his infamous basement.

“Siska?” Mike repeats, very slowly, very calmly. “As in. _Adam_ Siska? Younger half-brother of William Beckett, Adam Siska?”

“Yeah,” Butcher says, frowning, and Mike swears, low and vicious. “How do you know-”

“Where are you going?” Brendon demands, and Mike stops, turning to give Brendon an incredulous look.

“Getting out of here?” he says, slowly, because of all people Brendon should know why Mike wants to be as far away from William Beckett as possible.

“No,” Brendon says firmly, “no you’re not, you can’t just run away from this.”

“Why not?” Mike retorts. “It works pretty fucking well for me usually.”

“Uh, guys,” Butcher puts in, clearly confused, “what’s going on?”

They both ignore him. Brendon’s eyes are narrow as he stares Mike down, but Mike refuses to flinch.

“It’s been five years,” Brendon says, like Mike doesn’t already _know_ that, like Mike hasn’t counted every single day that’s passed since William left. “Don’t you think you should at least talk to him?”

Mike huffs out a laugh, bitter and sharp. “No,” is all he says, “no, I really don’t.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Brendon’s response, just pushes his way through the crowd of people in a mostly fruitless attempt to get the fuck out of there. 

Just his luck, he collides head first with someone on his way out of the door, fireworks exploding behind his eyes.

“Why don’t you fucking look where you’re- _Mike_?” the someone says, voice entirely too familiar for Mike’s comfort. He blinks, once, twice, and his vision finally stops swimming. _Fuck_.

“Beckett,” he sneers, and the boy in front of him narrows his eyes. “Should’ve known. Eau de pretentious dick was particularly strong round here.”

William opens his mouth around a likely cutting retort but then he just closes it again, sighing heavily. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’ve matured in five years,” he says, resigned, and for reasons Mike thought he’d buried a long, long time ago, that makes him bristle, and it’s like he’s eight years old again and the entire cafeteria is laughing at him, Bill Beckett’s triumphant grin burning his retinas.

“What are you even doing here, Beckett?” Mike demands, more vicious than he means to be, than he would be if he were thinking clearly. “Thought you’d fucked off to the other side of the country for good. Did Pete and Ashlee finally realise you’re not worth their time and get rid of you?”

William doesn’t flinch, but Mike can tell it’s not without great effort. He really hasn’t changed all that much in five years. His hair’s shorter than Mike remembers it being, cut to his chin and styled around his face instead of over it. He’s taller, too, towers over Mike by a good few inches, but he’s just as skinny as he always was, maybe even more so. His features are sharper than before, the way they inevitably are once puberty’s sunk its teeth in, but he doesn’t look any less girly. Still kind of pretty, kind of. (Mike can admit that much to himself; everyone thought Bill was pretty, it’s not like Mike’s anything special.)

William clears his throat and, abruptly, Mike realises he’s been staring. He glances away, face flushing hot, and William says, “They got divorced, actually. She was the one who wanted to be there, and Pete-”

William shrugs, his face carefully, carefully blank, but Mike learnt to read the lines of his face and the depth of his brown, brown eyes a long time ago.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Mike says, and he means it. He knows how much William loves his step-parents, especially Pete (that’s why he said it, because he knew it would hurt, because he wanted it to hurt) who married his mother when he was tiny and took him as his son after she died. He knows how badly William must’ve taken it. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“Yeah,” William says, huffing out a tiny laugh, “of course you didn’t. Fuck you, Carden.”

And he turns on his heel and strides away with a kind of grace he’d never quite managed when he was younger, head lifted from the ground, back entirely straight. Mike watches him leave, something horrible settling in the pit of his stomach.

From behind him Gabe Saporta says, “I’d punch you in the face, but I think you kind of took care of that all by yourself. Jesus, Mike.”

Mike whirls around, mouth already opening around a defence, but it withers and dies on his lips when he sees Gabe’s face. He’s leaning against a wall, arms folded tight across his chest, lips pressed thin and eyes hard. Mike always forgets Gabe and William used to be close, practically inseparable throughout school. It makes sense they would have stayed friends after William left. 

“Gabe,” Mike starts, and it’s probably a good thing Gabe interrupts him then because he has no clue what he’s going to say.

“Forget it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll go after him, shall I? Since you’re obviously not bothered.”

He detaches himself from the wall and strides off in the direction William went. Mike sighs, knuckling his fist into his eyes. He turns and trudges off in the opposite direction, letting the front door clang shut behind him as he leaves.

~

Mike mostly spends the first few weeks of the semester studiously avoiding discussions about college, anything resembling future plans and William Beckett. The latter is the easiest since they don’t share any lessons or lunch periods or even study hall, and Mike might just be projecting, but William seems to be avoiding him too. They’ve passed each other in the hallway a few times – it’s inevitable with a school as small as theirs – and every single time William’s eyes have drifted over Mike like he wasn’t even there.

All in all, Mike’s managed to stay well clear of anything approaching drama until he walks into the cafeteria one lunch time to find Butcher with his head pillowed on a table, Brendon patting him vaguely on the arm while he eats his lunch. The other guy on Butcher’s side is ignoring them completely, scribbling something important-looking in a notebook. (Mike’s pretty sure he’s one of Brendon’s friends from band, though he has no idea which. They all look the same to Mike and he’s nearly sure more than one of them’s called Alex, but this one’s skinny as fuck and nearly as pretty as William, so Mike’s gonna guess it’s that Ryan guy.)

“What’s going on?” Mike asks, eyeing Butcher warily.

Butcher raises his head just enough to give Mike a pitiful look. “The universe hates me,” he mourns, “ _hates_ me.”

Mike arches an eyebrow. He looks at Brendon – and he can’t believe _Brendon Urie_ is suddenly the voice of reason; Butcher must really, really like Siska if he’s fucking with his head like this – who swallows the mouthful of potato he’s eating and says, “Ursula screwed him over and now he doesn’t stand a chance with his Prince Charming.”

Mike promptly looks at Brendon’s friend, maybe-Ryan. He looks bored, and his expression doesn’t change as he translates, “He finally grew a pair and asked Siska out.”

This... doesn’t actually explain anything. Butcher’s been hanging out with Siska a lot lately; Siska needed a math tutor and Butcher offered even though Butcher is really hilariously terrible at math. Mike and Brendon have been teasing him about how fucking cliché the whole thing is every chance they get, because they’re just good friends that way.

“And, what,” Mike says, still confused, “Siska turned him down?”

Brendon starts to shake his head, then changes his mind halfway through and says, “Technically, yeah. He isn’t allowed to date until Bill does. Bill, apparently, doesn’t date.”

When Mike frowns, Brendon just shrugs. Ryan raises an elegant eyebrow.

“He’s prettier than most of the girls,” he says, counting off on his fingers, “most of the guys are scared of him, and he’s kind of a poisonously sarcastic bitch. It’s not like people are lining up to go out with him.”

Mike sort of bristles on William’s behalf, which is ridiculous because William _is_ a poisonously sarcastic bitch, who ruined Mike’s childhood, lest he forget. There is absolutely no reason why Mike should feel defensive of him.

“Gabe would,” he says instead, and Brendon gives him a narrow look. Ryan just looks confused, which is a lot of expression for his face.

“Gabe’s straight,” he says, slowly, “which you know. He’s also dating Victoria Asher, which you know too.” He pauses, brows furrowed in a frown, and then his eyes go wide. “Wait. You’re- you’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Brendon pats him on the arm. “Well done.”

“I am _not_ jealous!” Mike protests, and Brendon just snorts.

“Wait, that’s perfect!” Butcher beams at him. “You can date Bill and I can date Siska and everyone’ll be happy!”

“Uh, no,” Mike says quickly, before Butcher can get too invested in this crazy, stupid, _crazy_ idea. “I am not dating B- William just so you can have your Disney movie ending with your Prince Charming, okay, no.”

“I can pay you,” Butcher says, a determined gleam in his eye. “I know you’re still saving for a car and it’ll take you the rest of your life on your wages from the pool.”

“I- okay, even so, this is still a fucking stupid idea,” Mike feels obliged to point out, even though Butcher’s right, damn him. Mike could really use a source of income right now. “William doesn’t even _like_ me. William _hates_ me. I’m pretty sure the phrase ‘not even if you were the last person on earth’ applies.”

Ryan rolls his eyes so hard Mike thinks he might have sprained something. Whatever, Brendon’s shown him some of the lyrics he writes; he has no room to scorn other people’s  
the guy has no room to criticise 

“Oh, Mike,” Brendon says, shaking his head, and his voice is that kind of mocking he uses when he’s taking the piss but he looks... kind of sad, actually, which doesn’t make any sense at all, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Please?” Butcher says, eyes wide, lip caught between his teeth. “I’m desperate, Mike, just, _please_.”

Mike manages to hold out for all of five seconds before he relents, saying, “When this blows up in your face, don’t blame me.”

~

Mike’s working right after school, has to get the bus because Gabe’s got detention and can’t give him a ride, and he gets to the pool even later than he normally does. The supervisor doesn’t even bother to comment any more, just sighs a little long-suffering as Mike hurries to change into his work clothes, a t-shirt over swimming trunks.

“One of these days,” Victoria says as he heads out of the employee changing rooms, “you’re gonna be on time or, god forbid, _early_ , and Ray’ll have a heart-attack from the shock.”

Mike flips her off, grinning. He’s scheduled on cleaning first, one of the perils of not arriving early, but he actually doesn’t mind all that much. Ray lets them listen to music while they work and he makes them swap around often enough that they don’t get bored. (Also, Gerard’s teaching a group of under-fives right now and Mike would scrub the toilets clean with his own toothbrush to get away from that, so.)

The kids are gone by the time Mike has to swap with Nate, replaced instead by an older group learning advanced survival skills. Victoria’s watching a bunch of kids only a few years younger than them fucking around by the diving boards, so Mike heaves a sigh and heads for the other side of the pool, the haunt for the regulars who just swim laps, where nothing interesting ever happens. They’ll swap over in half an hour or so; he can hold out ‘til then.

He’s just settling into position on the windowsill opposite the main line when he nearly slips and falls and bashes his head in on the ground because William fucking Beckett is getting out of the pool.

He’s wet all over, his long hair plastered to his head and neck. Mike kind of can’t stop staring at his legs in the shorts he’s wearing, skinny and impossibly long, and has to swallow hard and blink rapidly a few times before he can tear his gaze away and concentrate on doing his fucking job. 

He loses his focus again when William slides back into the pool on the other side and starts swimming, a strong, confident front crawl Mike is envious of, switching to backstroke on the return journey. William does five laps before Mike realises he’s been watching no one else and shakes his head, hard, forcing himself to move so he can get his concentration back.

~

It feels like an eternity later when the PA system crackles to life and Ryland tells everyone to start getting ready to get out and go. Mike watches the kids hauling themselves out at the shallow end, helps a couple who look perilously close to slipping back in again, and determinedly doesn’t turn around to try and look for William. Mike lost track of him sometime after he and Victoria switched over, he doesn’t even know if William’s still here.

If Gabe weren’t grounded for getting a detention three weeks into the semester he’d be outside waiting to pick them up, but as it is Victoria’s got her mom’s car and when she offers Mike a lift, Mike isn’t stupid enough to say no. He really fucking hates being dependent on other people to get around, though,, being dependent on anybody for _anything_. He needs his own car.

“So William Beckett was in the pool today,” Mike says, casual, once they’ve pulled out of the parking lot and are headed out, because gossiping about pool-goers after work is a long-held tradition.

“Oh.” Victoria... doesn’t look as surprised as Mike thinks she kind of should be, honestly. “I did think I saw him. He’s been coming for weeks? Not usually on Wednesdays, though.”

Mike’s mouth drops open. His hands flail at his sides. Finally, he manages, “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Victoria slants him an odd look for a moment before returning her gaze to the road. “I didn’t think you’d care,” she says slowly. “You hate him. Don’t you? Gabe was telling me how much of an asshole you were to him; it sure seems like you do.”

“Fuck him,” Mike mutters, and Victoria smirks.

“Oh, trust me,” she says, “I will,” and Mike groans because he may have set himself up for that one but he really doesn’t want to think about two of his friends – who he has absolutely never ever had even the slightest of crushes on, Brendon can’t prove anything – having sex.

“You and William are friends, then?” Mike asks, perfectly innocent, but Victoria knows him better than that, and she’s dating _Gabe_. She can smell bullshit a mile off.

“I guess,” she says, eyebrow arched. The eyebrow says, very clearly, _what do you want, Mike_ , and Mike answers with the most innocent smile he can muster. “We hang out. He’s a great guy.”

“Um,” Mike says, wishing there was some way he could make this less awkward, “so, okay, I kind of maybe sort of need some advice.”

~

Mike finds William at school the next day, putting his books and stuff in his locker, his back to Mike. He tries not to remember the way the muscles in William’s arms had flexed when he’d hoisted himself out of the pool as he watches him reach inside his locker, leaning against the wall opposite as casual as he can manage.

William nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns around and sees Mike standing there, and Mike offers him a hesitant smile. William glares at him, mouth pulled down into a thin little line, but he looks wary, kind of like he’s expecting Mike to punch him in the face or something. Mike point-blank refuses to feel bad about that, but his body doesn’t quite get the message and something squirms in his gut.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” he says, all in a rush, and Bill’s forehead creases in a delicate frown.

“What?”

Mike curses under his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to repeat, “I was an asshole,” because he was, he can admit that without dying of shame, he _can_ , “and I’m sorry.”

He opens his eyes and William’s just _staring_ at him, mouth slightly parted, eyebrows at his hairline.

“What?” Mike demands, more defensive than he means to be, and William shakes his head firmly like he’s trying to clear it.

“Nothing,” he says, biting his lip around a smile. “I- yeah. I apologise as well, for my own assholishness. It takes two, after all.”

Mike smiles back, hesitant, because this is a terrible, terrible idea and it can’t end well and- “I was wondering... do you wanna go see Something Corporate with me this weekend?” he blurts out. He fishes in his pocket and produces the tickets he managed to get last minute with an awkward flourish. “Um. Peace offering?”

William stares at the tickets in Mike’s hands for a few moments, stunned, and then he looks up at Mike. His grin nearly splits his face in half as he says, “Yeah, fuck, thank you, Mike,” and Mike grins helplessly back, something warm curling round his chest he doesn’t want to name.

~

“So,” Butcher asks, leaning forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, “how’d it go?”

“Terribly,” Mike says around a bite of pasta bake, and then swallows. “He punched me in the face and told me never to speak to him again.”

“ _Mike_ ,” Butcher and Brendon say in unison, and Mike heaves a sigh.

“We’re going to see Andrew McMahon’s band play this weekend,” he says dutifully, “you fuckers happy with that?”

Butcher beams at him, and Brendon pumps the air and cheers.

“Fuck yeah! Ryan owes me twenty bucks,” he says, and Mike’s eyes narrow.

“You had a bet on whether William would go out with me or not? Seriously?”

Brendon looks shifty. “Actually, um, the bet was whether you’d actually ask him. In my defence,” he adds hastily, “I put money on you asking him. If you’re gonna punch anyone it should be Dallon, he bet fifty on you two getting into a fight instead. And then said he’d forfeit if he got to watch.”

Mike thinks about being offended for all of five seconds before he just shakes his head. “Y’know what, I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he mutters. “My life is a shitty romantic comedy all over.”

“No,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes like Mike’s incredibly stupid, “it’s a stupid teen movie, duh. Want a cut of the profits?”

“Which reminds me,” Butcher says suddenly, fishing in his pocket for something, “here, I figured this would cover the date and a bit extra.”

He hands over a wad of notes and beams at Mike some more, and Mike’s eyes go wide as he counts through it. “Wow,” he says, “uh, this is, whoa, Butcher. I seriously wasn’t expecting even _half_ this.”

Butcher shrugs, says, “Concert tickets are expensive. Don’t worry about it, man, it’s worth every penny.”

He grins at Mike and Mike grins back, through the churning in his gut and the guilt squeezing his chest tight.

~

The band is pretty good, better than Mike was expecting from the songs Brendon sent him links to. They’ve got the kind of raw, untempered energy bands only ever have when they’re playing live, and Andrew’s got one hell of a stage presence. Mike likes, them, kind of, might even ask William if he can borrow their album.

Somehow, William manages to get him to dance at one point, for given values of ‘dancing’ anyway; he grabs Mike’s arm in the middle of a song and starts jumping around with him, giggling through Mike’s mostly inaudible protests. William’s laughter is powerful, because Mike’s resistance seems to basically crumble after that, and he lets himself be led.

William’s eyeing the merch table with definite lust in his eyes as they go past at the end of the gig. Mike suddenly wishes he’d brought Butcher’s money with him instead so he could buy him something, and then he has to shake himself, hard.

“Go on,” he says, nudging William’s hip. William looks at him, startled. “Go satisfy your epic boner for pretentious t-shirts.”

“Pretentious is just the word you plebeians use for things that are too intellectual for your tiny brains to handle,” William sniffs, but Mike can see him biting back a grin. “You want anything?”

Mike shakes his head. “Not really my thing,” he says dryly, “you know, being a tiny-brained plebeian and all. I need a cigarette, anyway.”

William makes a disgusted face that Mike can’t help but laugh at that, but his voice is polite when he says, “I hope you enjoy the systematic destruction of your lungs by cigarette smoke. See you in a minute, I suppose.”

Mike laughs, eyebrows raised. “Not likely. You seen the size of that queue?”

“And you’re abandoning me to face it all by myself, you cruel, cruel boy,” William says, grinning. “For lung cancer, no less! I feel slighted.”

“You’re abandoning me for pretentious t-shirts,” Mike points out. “If anything, _I’m_ the slighted one here.”

“Oh, go choke on a cancer stick,” William says, and Mike full-on cackles.

“Are you sure that’s what you want me to be choking on?”

William’s cheeks go pink and he says, “Yes. Yes, definitely, _all_ the cancer sticks in the world. I’m just. I have to, uh.”

And then he ducks away, heading for the merch table, and Mike laughs the whole way out of the venue. He’s still chuckling to himself as he fishes out a packet of smokes and lights one, leaning back against the brick.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when someone taps him on the shoulder, and when he whirls around he’s confronted with Gabe’s leering face.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he exhales, “that never gets any less terrifying, seriously.”

“Nice to see you too, Mike,” Gabe says, grinning. “Vicky-T said I’d find you here. Where’s Bill?”

“Buying a pretentious t-shirt,” Mike smirks, nearly bursts out laughing all over again even though it really isn’t that funny. “What you doing here?”

“I was just wondering,” Gabe says, and he’s still smiling but his eyes have gone hard, “when you were planning on telling Bill you only asked him out because Butcher paid you to.”

Mike nearly chokes on an inhale. “How did you-” he coughs out, but Gabe doesn’t let him finish.

“The Cobra knows all, Carden,” he says, and Mike has no idea if he’s serious or just pretending to be. It’s hard to tell with Gabe. “That is not the point. The point is, you’re an asshole.”

“Gabe-”

“He really, really likes you, you know that?” Gabe says, and Mike falls abruptly silent. “The first few weeks of school, all he could talk about was you.”

“Because he hates me,” Mike says, but it’s more automatic than anything else by this point.

“Whatever,” Gabe snorts. “That is also not actually the point. The point is, you have to tell him before you let this go any further.”

“Or what?” Mike challenges, and Gabe rolls his eyes.

“Or,” he says, “to use a phrase as equally trite, I will. See y’around, Carden.”

Mike sinks back into the wall as he watches Gabe stride away, lighting another cigarette to calm the sudden pounding in his chest. That’s how William finds him twenty minutes later, nearly halfway through the pack.

“What do you think?” William asks, grinning as he gestures to the t-shirt he’s wearing. It’s entirely white, with only a tiny pencil sketch of a bird next to the band name. “Pretentious enough for you?”

Mike barely even glances at it before muttering, “Yeah, yeah, whole new levels of douchebaggery right there,” and William frowns at him.

“You okay?” he asks, and he sounds like he’s actually concerned, like Mike’s well-being _matters_ to him, and for some reason that makes Mike’s stomach churn.

“I’m fine,” he says, sharper than he meant to, but he softens when it makes William flinch. “I just wanna go home, okay? I’m kinda tired.”

“Okay,” William says, nodding, and he falls into step easily with Mike as he detaches himself from the wall and strides off. “But, uh, Mike? You live that way,” he points out, inclining his head behind them. “I live this way.”

Mike stops abruptly. “I knew that,” he lies. “I was, uh, I was just gonna walk you home. It’s late, not exactly safe for someone like you to be out by themselves.”

William arches an eyebrow, and it looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “While I appreciate the sentiment,” he says, “I really can take care of myself.”

Mike nods awkwardly. “Okay then. I guess, um, I guess I should go that way, then.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his house. “Good night?”

“Good night,” William says. He’s smiling, this smile that pulls the corners of his eyes right up, and Mike can’t help but smile back. “Thanks for tonight. I had a great time.”

“No problem,” Mike says, honest, “I did too.”

William just stands there for a few more minutes, smiling, and then he leans forward suddenly and brushes his lips over Mike’s. When he pulls back, his face is burning and Mike can do nothing but stare at him.

“Wait,” he blurts out, lips tingling, “is this- did you think this was a date?” William’s face falls so fast it’s like someone flipped a switch, and Mike nearly trips over himself saying, “Because that was absolutely the right assumption, holy shit,” and reels him back in to kiss him again.

~

_tell me everything dude DO NOT SKIMP ON DETAILS_

The ridiculous grin Mike’s been wearing since he got home only dims a little at the text from Brendon.

 _pervert_ he texts back, and gets a response almost instantly. _i have no love life of my own i must live vicariously thru u and the butcher and ur disney romances_

Mike snorts. Of course Brendon would manage to correctly spell ‘vicarious’ – Mike didn’t think people even _used_ that word outside of the tv shows his parents watch and, like, Jane Austen – and then proceed to break every other SPAG rule possible.

_what about your band friends? thought you lot got all the girls_

_ur kidding rite we r band geeks we get no play :((((_

Mike shakes his head. _and this counts as play how bden?_

His phone beeps twice, one after another. _stfu it totally does_ and then _UR DISTRACTIONARY TACTICS WILL NOT WORK ON ME CARDEN_

_show was pretty good. bumped into gabe. he knows about the butcher thing. hung out a bit more. bill kissed me. happy?_

Mike’s phone doesn’t buzz for a few minutes, and when it does’, Brendon’s name and stupid photo he took back in freshman year and set for himself is flashing on the screen.

“What the actual _fuck_?” Brendon exclaims before Mike can even say hello. “Gabe _knows_?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Hey, Brendon. Nice to hear from you. How was your evening?”

Brendon makes an impatient noise. “I don’t care about that shit. How the hell does Gabe know?”

“No idea,” Mike says, trying to sound bored. “B, why does it even matter?”

“Why does it- oh my god. It matters,” Brendon says, slowly, “because he might _tell William_.”

“And?”

“And,” Brendon continues, “you self-centred oblivious fucktard, it would ruin everything for Butcher. Do you have any idea how fucking happy he was after his date with Siska yesterday? Did you even ask?”

“I-”

“You didn’t, did you,” Brendon says, flatly, “and that’s fine, that’s how you do shit, I get that. But I know you care, Mike, somewhere in there, and you are not fucking this up for Butcher. You are not.”

Mike doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “Gabe said he’d tell him,” he says quietly, “if I didn’t.”

Brendon swears. Mike winces.

“Sorry,” he offers, and he means it. 

“Are you going to?” Brendon asks, and Mike just shrugs, forgetting for a minute that Brendon can’t actually see him.

“It could still fuck things up,” he says, after a minute, “for Butcher, I mean. I don’t know. Should I?”

“I don’t know either,” Brendon sighs. “Fuck, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, exhaling sharply. “Fuck.”

“You kissed, though, that’s awesome,” Brendon says, and it sounds like he’s grinning, just a little. Something in Mike’s chest eases. “Was there tongue? Did he clutch you to his bosom and proclaim his undying love?”

“You are ridiculous,” Mike informs him, and Brendon just laughs.

~

Gabe backs Mike up against his locker the next day at school, his smile wide and just a little bit sharp around the edges.

“I talked to Brendon,” he says, and, “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here, Carden, because we’re friends and I like you and I really don’t want to have to punch you in the dick,” and, softer, “You should have said, I wouldn’t have given you shit if I knew,” and, snickering a little, “Well, I would have, but not that kind of shit.”

Mike just blinks. He’s only half sure he understands what’s going on here, but he nods anyway. “Okay, sure,” he says, and Gabe flashes that grin again before smacking him on the back and strolling away, whistling.

Mike blinks after him, and then he shakes his head and turns around to get his books out of his locker. There’s a tap on his shoulder and Mike sighs.

“Seriously, Gabe, what do you want now, I- oh. Hey, Bill,” he says, smiling sheepishly at the look of confusion on Bill’s face.

“Hey, Mike,” Bill says, his lips twitching like they’re trying to smile but can’t quite manage it. “So, uh.” He shifts, as awkward in his own skin as he was five years ago. Mike frowns. “Can you come over for dinner this weekend?” Bill blurts out. “Pete wants to meet you. And the Butcher. But mostly you.”

“Pete has met me,” Mike says, slowly, in case Bill’s forgotten all those times Pete and Mike’s mom were called into the principal’s office during junior high when Mike and Bill got into fights every other week.

“But that was _before_ ,” Bill says, like this is entirely reasonable. “He wants to meet you now. Find out your-” Bill coughs, cheeks pink. “Intentions. Towards me. Um.”

“Huh,” Mike says, and then shrugs. “Sure, okay then.”

Bill breathes out. “Thank you, Mike,” he says, and pulls Mike into a hug.

“No problem,” Mike says, but it comes out muffled because his face is mashed into Bill’s neck. “Any time.”

~

He’s kind of really regretting it when Saturday night rolls around and he’s standing outside William’s house with Butcher.

“Why the fuck did I agree to this,” Mike mutters, glancing around nervously, “this is going to suck _so hard_.”

“Because you wanted to be a good boyfriend,” Butcher says cheerfully.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mike moans, “I’m not Bill’s _boyfriend_.”

“Mike,” he says, not unkindly, “you’re going to dinner at his house. To meet his step-dad.”

Mike stares at him for a moment, two, and then he says, softly, “Oh fuck. I’m Bill’s boyfriend.”

Butcher pats him on the shoulder, then steps forward and presses the doorbell before Mike can yank him back.

Siska answers the door, and he beams when he sees Butcher, kissing him quick and chaste. Mike makes the appropriate gagging noises, but honestly it’s kind of cute the way Butcher goes pink and Siska can’t stop grinning, and the panic that seized him earlier is steadily ebbing away as he follows the two of them inside.

It returns in full force when he sees Pete, perched on the bottom step of the stairs.

“Pete, this is Butcher,” Siska says, tugging him forward. “And you know Mike.”

“I do,” Pete says levelly, giving Mike a narrow look before turning to Butcher. “Hello. I understand you’re interested in dating my son.”

“I am indeed, Mr Wentz,” Butcher says, his talking-to-parents smile perfectly in place. “He’s a really great guy, I’d be honoured to have the chance.”

Mike just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, and only because he actually isn’t sure that Butcher isn’t serious.

“Sisky is a _delicate flower_ ,” Pete says sternly, and Siska lets out a groan muffled by his hands. “There’ll be no pollination tonight, understood?”

“Understood,” Butcher says gravely, face entirely straight, and Mike rolls his eyes.

“Bill!” Siska hollers, looking desperate. “Pete’s breaking out the flower metaphors! Can we eat dinner yet?”

Bill pokes his head around the kitchen door and grins. “Sorry,” he says, not looking apologetic in the slightest, “it’s not quite ready.”

“And _you_ ,” Pete says, rounding on Mike. “I don’t know what game you’re playing but William’s flourished away from your herbicidal-”

“Dinner is totally served,” Bill says hastily, grabbing Pete by his shirt and dragging him towards the kitchen. Mike doesn’t laugh, but it’s a very concerted effort.

~

Dinner is... well, dinner is not nearly as excruciating as it could be, but it’s still pretty bad. Pete grills Butcher and Mike about school, work, their plans for the future, but he gets distracted when Butcher mentions art and Mike gratefully buries himself in his food while Pete and Butcher talk about the importance of creative expression.

Bill’s sitting opposite him, and once Pete’s suitably distracted he kicks at Mike’s ankle under the table and mouths an apology at him. Mike just shakes his head and smiles, kicking gently back. 

Pete promptly tosses out a, “No illicit sexual behaviour at the dinner table,” without even turning away from Butcher.

Bill turns a hilarious shade of red. “We weren’t-”

“Footsie counts as illicit sexual behaviour, Billvy,” Pete informs him, grinning.

“If you want illicit sexual behaviour,” Bill mutters, “I can _give_ you illicit sexual behaviour.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. “What happened to no pollination?” he asks innocently, and everyone laughs, even Bill, though his cheeks are flaming and he mouths an _I hate you_ at Mike. Mike just grins back. 

“Whose turn is it to do the dishes, then?” Pete asks when everyone’s finished eating.

Siska looks at Bill. Bill looks betrayed. “I cooked!” he protests. 

“You offered!” Siska retorts. “I was all set to do it and then you were just like, _oh no, Adam, I have to make something special for my_ -”

“Finish that sentence,” Bill says, slowly, deadly, “and I will tell Butcher all about your collection of-”

“I’ll do the dishes,” Siska says quickly, jumping to his feet. “Mike, you’ll help, right?”

Mike looks at him, confused, but Siska only makes significant eyebrows at him so Mike says, “Uh, sure.”

He’s expecting Siska to say something the moment they’re alone, but Siska only says, “Wash or dry?” and smiles at him when Mike says, “Um, dry?”

He keeps up a steady stream of chatter the whole time he washes the dishes, pausing occasionally to let Mike interject. Siska’s nice, kind of a sweet kid once you get past all the layers of weird. Mike’s never actively _dis _liked him, but he’s starting to see why Butcher likes him so much.__

It isn’t until they’ve nearly got through all the crockery before Sisky says, “I know you’re only dating Bill so Butcher can go out with me,” and Mike nearly drops the plate.

“How-”

“Butcher told me,” Siska says dismissively. “That’s not the point. The point is that if you hurt my brother-”

“You’ll hurt me, is that what this is?” Mike finishes around a laugh, can’t help it.

The look Siska levels him sobers him instantly. “You’re bigger than me,” Siska says, matter-of-fact. “You could probably pound me into the dirt without even trying.”

“Well, yeah,” Mike says, “but I wouldn’t. You’re just a kid.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Siska says flatly. The word rolls off his tongue easily, but it still sounds odd coming out of his mouth. Mike wonders if he learnt it from Bill. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. Bill doesn’t need anyone to fight his battles for him. If you hurt him, he’ll pulverise you so badly your reincarnation will be a scientific anomaly.” He looks at Mike, sharp and sort of determinedly fierce. “Don’t hurt him.”

Mike blinks. “Okay,” he says carefully, “I’ll, uh, I’ll try not to,” and Siska flashes him a smile. 

“Good,” is all he says, and then, brighter, “Hey, I wonder where Bill and the Butcher got to.”

He bounces off without waiting for a reply from Mike, so Mike just shakes his head and follows him out of the kitchen.

They bump into Butcher in the hall, looking kind of shell-shocked, his face an odd shade of green. 

“Hey,” Siska says, looking concerned, “you okay?”

Butcher nods, but his smile doesn’t fool Mike. “Where’s Bill?” he asks, shrewd, and Butcher inclines his head upstairs, eyes still wide.

Mike finds Bill’s room easily enough; it’s the first door on the right, plastered in gig tickets and quotes from books Mike’s never read scribbled on notepaper. He knocks once and walks in, kicking the door shut behind him. Bill’s lying on his bed, a book propped up against his knees.

“You totally just gave Butcher the hurt-him-and-you-die speech, didn’t you,” Mike says, grinning as he leans back against the wall opposite him.

Bill lifts his head to look at Mike, defiant. “He _seems_ like a nice guy, don’t get me wrong,” he says, “but Adam is young and inexperienced and-”

“If you were going to finish that sentence the way I think you were going to finish that sentence, please don’t,” Mike cuts in, wincing. “He’s your _brother_.”

“Step,” Bill corrects, “and, also, nothing could be worse than _flower metaphors_.” They share a grimace. “Did Adam give you the speech as well?”

Mike nods. “He said you’re a vicious motherfucker and you eat your mates after breeding.”

“He did not,” Bill says immediately, and Mike laughs.

“Nah, he didn’t. He did say you could fight your own battles, though.”

Bill glances away. “Will I need to?” he asks, so, so quietly.

“Um.” Mike shifts, uncomfortable. “Do you think you need to?”

Bill shrugs. “At first, I thought it was just a joke or something,” he says, and Mike freezes. “I mean, I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you hated _me_ ,” Mike says, shifting uncomfortably.

“I only hated you because you hated me first,” Bill counters.

“I only hated you ‘cause-” Mike breaks off and looks away, feeling his cheeks go hot, but he sees Bill frown in his peripheral vision and he knows he’s not gonna get away with it that easily.

“No,” Bill insists, “no, what, why, tell me.”

“It’s stupid,” Mike says quickly, but Bill’s still frowning. “We were kids, it was just-”

“Just what, Mike?” Bill asks, and the expression on his face is so far from a smile Mike’s chest hurts.

“You put chilli in my lunch,” Mike mumbles, and he knows it’s stupid, he _knows_ , but his chest is tight and all he can remember is being eight years old and _furious_ , “and you laughed and everyone laughed and I hated you so much I couldn’t think straight. I just. I just never really got over it, I guess.”

“I-” Bill gapes at him for a minute, then he seems to shake himself out of it. “Wow. I figured it must’ve been something pretty juvenile-” Mike bristles, and Bill hurries on. “-but, yes, um. I apologise for my eight-year-old self?”

“Thank you,” Mike says stiffly.

“But, Mike,” Bill says, and he’s smiling, he’s fucking _smiling_ , “I only did it because I was trying to get your attention.”

Mike pauses his freak out. He blinks at Bill. “Um. What?”

“I liked you,” Bill confesses, worrying at his bottom lip, “I thought it was obvious. I didn’t know how else to-” He shrugs. “I figured you were familiar with the whole pigtail-pulling thing.”

Mike stares at him, lets that sink in, and then he has to laugh because of _course_ , of course Bill thought that. Bill’s silent for a moment or two and then he joins in, and for a few minutes they just lean into each other and laugh and laugh and laugh.

“We’re idiots, aren’t we,” Mike says, and Bill’s voice is fond when he says, “Yeah, I think we kind of are.”

~

“Have you told him yet?” Gabe asks when Mike gets in the car, like he’s done every morning for nearly a month now.

Mike glowers at him, and Gabe sighs as he pulls out into the road and hits the gas.

“You know it’s just gonna get harder the longer you leave it, right?” he says and Mike’s glower only intensifies.

“No I was not aware of that,” he snaps, “please continue to remind me how much shit I’m in.”

“Hey,” Victoria says, sharp, and Mike doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s frowning at him. “He’s just trying to help, which is more than you fucking deserve at this point.”

Mike fumes silently, biting back the retort rising in his throat because he’ll only sound like even more of a dick than he already is. Victoria’s right, much as it stings him to admit it.

They spend the rest of the journey in tense, awkward silence, until they’re pulling into the school parking lot. Mike jumps out the second the car stops moving and slams the door shut behind him with enough force to calm himself down, a little.

When Mike gets to his locker, Bill is hovering beside it, and he’s kind of the last person Mike wants to see right now but he forces himself to smile anyway, say, “Bill, hey-”

Bill punches him in the face, not enough force behind it to properly hurt. Mike still reels back, staring at him in shock.

“Fuck you,” he spits out, and Mike can tell its supposed to be vicious but Bill just sounds tired. “Just, seriously, go fuck yourself on a rusty rake and get hepatitis.”

And that’s when Mike notices the redness around his eyes, the purple blotches on his cheeks, and his heart leaps up into his throat.

“Bill,” he tries, but Bill tosses him a look so venomous the words die in his throat.

“Don’t even,” he says quietly. “I never want to speak to you again. I don’t even want to look at you, fuck-” His laugh is jagged and broken when it makes it out of his mouth. “I never want to see you again.”

And then he spins on his heel and strides away, with that same effortless grace Mike’s come to love about him, but he’s shaking so hard Mike can see it and he wants to call after him, beg him to come back, to forgive him. 

He doesn’t.

He shuffles to class and the rumours must have started circling already because every single person glares at him when he walks in the door. (He knows for a fact most of them can’t stand Bill, but apparently all you have to do to gain people’s favour is get screwed over by someone they hate more.)

Mike just turns right back around and gets out of there.

~

He doesn’t get out of bed the next morning. He can’t, doesn’t have the energy to face a day at school, so he rolls over and curls up and when his mom comes in like she always does before she leaves for work to make sure he’s up, he fakes a coughing fit and pretends he’s sick.

It doesn’t take much effort.

He sleeps for most of the day, but he surfaces sometime in the afternoon to make himself something to eat. He’s watching some rubbish daytime show on TV when the doorbell rings.

Mike frowns, but he forces himself to get up and answer it. If it’s important, his mom’d never forgive him for ignoring it.

He pads down the corridor, yawning, and when he opens the door Brendon’s standing there. He’s got a guitar case slung over one shoulder, and one of his friends from band is lurking behind him... Ian, or maybe Spencer? (There are a pair of drumsticks tucked into the pocket of his jeans, he’s wearing a pink shirt with a unicorn on it and his scowl could melt titanium, so Mike’s fairly sure it’s Spencer. Fairly.)

“You weren’t at school,” Brendon says, and, fuck, he looks _pissed_. “Tell me you haven’t spent the day pining or so help me god I will slap you.”

“Brendon-”

“Knew it,” Brendon mutters, shaking his head. “This is so fucking stupid, I don’t even- you two deserve each other, you’re both _idiots_.”

Mike bristles, he can’t help it. “Fuck you, Urie, I don’t need this right now. If you’re just here to insult me-”

“Of course I’m here to insult you,” Brendon retorts, “it’s me, asshole, but also, in case you’ve been having ideas about punching Gabe out or something, you should know that it was Spencer who told Bill.” 

Mike’s eyes narrow before flicking to Spencer, who suddenly looks a lot less scowly and a lot more sheepish.

“I thought you were a dick,” he mumbles, shifting on his feet. “Which you were, for the record, who the fuck fake-dates someone just so their friend can nail their kid brother, I mean-”

Brendon clears his throat meaningfully.

“But,” Spencer says grudgingly, “apparently you aren’t as much of an asshole as you let everyone think you are, so, I’m sorry I fucked things up for you.”

Mike just shrugs. “S’fine,” he says, even though it isn’t. This isn’t Spencer’s fault, it’s his, only his, and he has to fucking deal with that for once. “If that’s all you wanted, I should get back to the rock I crawled out from.”

“Oh for the love of-” Brendon exhales sharply, steps forward and slaps Mike hard across the face.

Mike rocks back on his heels, hand clutching his stinging cheek, and blinks back at him in confusion. “What the fuck was that for?” he asks eventually.

“Moping, being an idiot, fucking up the best thing that’s ever happened to you, ruining Butcher’s Disney ending, take your pick,” Brendon tells him, but the steel in his tone is kind of undermined by the way he’s rubbing the hand he used to slap Mike against his thigh.

“What the fuck do you want me to do, Brendon?” Mike says, exasperated. He can’t quite muster the energy for proper anger, not quite, even though his face is still smarting with the imprint of the palm of Brendon’s hand.

“You have to win back your fair lady,” Brendon says, utterly serious, and Mike only barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Spencer doesn’t have the same self-restraint. “And in the spirit of all terrible teen movies, you need a grand fucking gesture to demonstrate the depth of your love.”

“I kind of think we’re past grand gestures, B,” Mike says tiredly, but Brendon just shakes his head vehemently.

“Not if you have the right one,” he says, a fierce determination to his eyes and mouth, “trust me, Mike.”

And, despite it all, Mike kind of does. He nods, and steps aside to let Brendon and Spencer inside.

~

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Mike mutters, and Brendon rolls his eyes.

“For the hundredth time, yes,” he says, “now stop being a pussy and let’s do this.”

He shoves Mike forward, into the cafeteria, and Mike stumbles and nearly trips but keeps going anyway, towards the centre of the room where Bill is sitting with Gabe and Victoria and their friends.

Victoria notices Mike first and narrows her eyes at him, obviously suspicious.

“What the fuck do you want, Carden,” she says, and Mike deserves this, he _does_ , but Bill won’t even look at him and it’s making his chest constrict and his throat close up. 

“I just,” he says, weakly, then, Brendon’s hand strong and warm on his shoulder, “oh, fuck it. Bill, I just- I just need you to hear this.”

Right on cue, Spencer starts shaking out the beat on his tambourine, Brendon picks out the chords on his ukulele and Mike screws his eyes shut and sings, “ _We’re no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I._ ”

He thinks he can actually hear Bill’s mouth falling open. He keeps his eyes shut tight until he gets to the chorus, when he opens his eyes on the “ _Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and_ -”

But Bill’s face is sheet white and his hands are shaking and he gets up before Mike gets to the end of the verse, has fled before Mike’s even finished the chorus. Mike breaks off and curses and runs after him, ignoring everything else in the world.

“Bill!” he calls after him, desperate. “Bill, wait, I have to-”

Bill whirls around, eyes blazing, and Mike grinds to a halt right there and then. “What, Mike? What further humiliation have you got planned for me, or was it enough to rick-roll me in front of the entire school on top of everything else?”

“To what-roll you?” Mike says slowly, frowning. “I- Bill, that was, it was supposed to-”

“I don’t wanna fucking hear it,” Bill spits out, but though his eyes are still fiery his lips are pinched tight and his shoulders are hunched and he looks so _sad_ Mike wants to punch himself in the face. He has no idea why he can’t ever do any fucking thing right, especially with people he cares about, especially with William.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, because it occurs to him he hasn’t actually said that yet and there is a mountain of things he needs to apologise for. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you out for the right reasons and I’m sorry I wouldn’t have otherwise because I was a fucking stupid kid and I hated you so much and I’ve never deserved you, anyway, and I’m sorry for making it worse with trying to sing to you.” He grimaces; possibly this is going worse than the singing, which Mike would never have thought possible, but talking about your feelings is somehow difficult in a way singing about them isn’t. “It was supposed to be a grand gesture, I don’t know.”

Bill bites his lip, looks down at Mike through his fringe, says, “Rick Astley was supposed to be a grand gesture?” and he’s probably just imagining it, he _has_ to just be imagining it, but it sounds like Bill is smiling at him. Just a little.

“It was Brendon’s idea?” Mike offers, and Bill actually laughs, softly, kind of mocking, but nothing like the cafeteria when they were eight and everything like Bill’s room ten years later, and the tight awful feeling in Mike’s gut loosens, just a little, just enough.

“Of course it was,” Bill says, shaking his head. He looks back at Mike, shrewd. Then he says, carefully, like he’s considering something, “You hate singing in front of people.”

Mike shrugs. “Not more than I like you,” he says, then he winces, adds quickly, “Shit, that’s really fucking cheesy, isn’t it? Forget I said that.”

“Never,” Bill declares, shaking his head hard, “you are a secret romantic, Mike Carden, I _knew_ it.”

“It was _Brendon’s_ idea,” he protests, but Bill’s eyes are fond and the twist of his mouth is sweet, so sweet Mike wants to bite all along the line of it. He’s not sure if that would be crossing a line, though, and he doesn’t wanna fuck this up, not this time, not ever again.

“Of course it was,” Bill chuckles. “You didn’t finish the song, you know. I think I’m a little disappointed.”

“You really, really shouldn’t be,” Mike says, shaking his head. “Wasn’t it horrifying enough already?”

“Shut up, you weren’t that bad,” Bill says, and Mike is about to protest further when he starts singing. “ _We’ve known each other for so long, your heart’s aching but you’re too shy to say it_.” He stares at Mike until he gets to the end of the verse, at which point his eyes drop to the floor and he says, softly, carefully, “Did you mean it?”

“Um,” Mike says, because his heart’s pounding and his stomach’s churning, but Bill’s face falls. “Yes, _yes_ , god you have no idea how much.” He feels his face burn and doesn’t look at Bill, can’t.

“Good,” Bill says, and then there are arms around Mike’s shoulders, squeezing so tight it almost hurts. “That’s good. I want- I want to make this work, Mike.”

“Me too,” Mike whispers, because he does, _so_ much.

“Do you-” Bill breaks off, and he’s shaking, Mike can feel it, they’re pressed so close together. “Do you think we can?”

Mike just inhales for a few seconds, eyes squeezed shut, and then he lifts up his arms and hugs William back.

“Yeah,” he says, softly, “yeah, I think we can.”

~

  
_the time has come; let us be brave._  



End file.
